That, at least, had been the rumor.
Also he had heard, just lately, that Ford had taken to gambling as a
profession and to terrorizing Sunset periodically as a pastime. And
Mason remembered the Ford Campbell who had carried him on his back out
of a wild place in Alaska, and had nearly starved himself that the sick
man's strength might not fail him utterly. He had remembered--had Ches
Mason; and, being one of those tenacious souls who cling to friendship
and to a resilient faith in the good that is in the worst of us, he had
thrown out a tentative life-line, as it were, and hoped that Ford might
clutch it before he became quite submerged in the sodden morass of
inebriety.
Ford may or may not have grasped eagerly at the line. At any rate he was
there in the mess-house of the Double Cross, and he was not quite so
sodden as Mason had feared to find him--provided he found him at all. So
much, at least, was encouraging, and for the rest, Mason was content to
wait.
Mose, recognizing Ford at once, had asked him, with a comical attempt at
secrecy, if he had anything to drink. When Ford shook his head, Mose
stifled a sigh and went back to his dishwashing, not more than half
convinced and inclined toward resentfulness.
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